


Together

by TheMuchTooMerryMaiden



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Infidelity, M/M, Mention of (Canon) Suicide, episodic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:11:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMuchTooMerryMaiden/pseuds/TheMuchTooMerryMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Greg met Mycroft things developed slowly...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Together

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Indigowallbreaker](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Indigowallbreaker).



When Greg came back from consulting the frankly bloody useless surveillance team across the road he found Sherlock berating a member of the public,

“Well what would you know about it, you great fat lump?” was the line he caught the full benefit of as he came back into the room. Unsurprisingly the bloke that Sherlock was having a go at turned abruptly on his heel and stalked out pushing past Greg who went after him. 

“Hey, you, hold on a moment,”

The man who had got down to the half-landing in the stairs turned and looked up and Greg was struck by two things, the fact that he wasn’t fat at all and pure unadulterated lust.

“Yes?” the man enquired, a look of polite enquiry on his face. Greg wasn’t totally convinced he could see the faint trace of a blush still on his cheeks and a second later the man seemed to realise, his second ‘Yes?’ was less polite and more flustered.

Greg pulled himself together, this was his investigation, Sherlock and mysterious, handsome men be damned, he needed to take charge

“This is a crime scene you know, I’d like you to explain what business you have here.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” the man replied all trace of his ill humour disappearing, “here is my ID, I should apologise, I needed to speak to my brother.”

On automatic Greg took the ID and was proud of himself that he didn’t take a step back, that he didn’t openly goggle at the ID which was very much the sort of ID that you hoped never to see in your career.

“I see,” he paused and then blurted out the first thing on his mind, “You’re Sherlock’s brother? He’s never mentioned you.”

“I would have been very surprised if he had. As you can’t have missed we have a ... strained relationship. However I can see that working with you is doing him good.” This was said with a smile that Greg felt like an all over thing,

“I don’t know about that,” he stammered, face reddening under the other man’s gaze,

“Well I do, that’s the most polite I’ve had him be in years, thank you Detective Inspector, if there is ever anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to get in touch.”

And with that he hurried off down the steps leaving Lestrade only with the thought that he would have no idea how to get in touch which was a bit of a bugger. The idea of Sherlock having anything so normal as a big brother somehow seemed odd to Greg. He tried for a moment to picture them doing the usual sibling things but was unsuccessful. Mycroft and Sherlock he mused, what on earth must their parents be like?

 

It was stupid standing here watching Sherlock as he lay in the hospital bed. It wasn’t doing either of them any good and yet despite the fact he was going to catch it hot when he went home, somehow Greg couldn’t make himself go. The door opened soundlessly but Greg, hyperaware turned, tense and ready for anything before relaxing when he saw Sherlock’s brother.

“How is he?” the man asked.

Greg turned back to the figure in the bed, thin and restless even in his unconsciousness,

“He should be all right,” he paused for a long time, thoughts chasing each other round and round, “I’m sorry, I should have taken better care of him, I should have taken more notice, I’m a policeman for fuck’s sake, I should have seen the signs.”

Mycroft took a step nearer the bed and reached out to take hold of Sherlock’s wrist, clearly feeling for the pulse, Greg had done the same a few times,

“You have nothing to berate yourself for Detective Inspector, addicts are good at hiding things and Sherlock was good at hiding long before he took to illicit substances.” The clock on the wall ticked on and Sherlock continued to breathe with metronomic regularity, Greg was almost startled when Mycroft spoke again, “At least this time there was someone to help, someone to get him to the hospital,” he swallowed and gently put Sherlock’s hand back down on the bedclothes, “I will always be grateful to you for that.”

Greg didn’t know how to respond, no trite form of words seemed the right thing to say so he asked about the other times and haltingly Mycroft told him, twice more reaching out for the reassurance of touching Sherlock’s hand.

“I’m going to have to try ‘tough love’ with him, I’m sorry, but he can’t work with the police and be high,” Greg said, “no more cases without he’s clean ... I’m sorry.”

“It’s more likely than most things to get him clean. You know why he says he does this?”

Greg shook his head,

“Because it quiets his mind. The drugs do it, a puzzle does it, puzzling out another human being does it, which is where you come in. I think you are quite right, it may be the only way to get through to him.” There was another long pause, “You should go Detective Inspector, I will remain with him.”

“I suppose so,” Greg agreed, “I was expected,” he glanced at his watch and winced, “sometime ago.” However he continued to stand and watch Sherlock breathe for another few minutes.

“I’ll contact you if there are any problems,” Mycroft said and that made Greg think,

“Yeah about that, is there some way I can get in touch with you?”

Greg thought that he detected a slight reddening of Mycroft’s face as he reached into his inside pocket and drew out a calling card. Simple black on white, elegant it gave his name and a phone number that was all,

“You can always leave a message for me on that number and be sure that I will receive it.”

“Good,” Greg smiled and ducked his head, “you know how he is.”

“Yes, I do, and remember I meant what I said, if you ever need anything...”

 

He didn’t want to go home. It wasn’t quite as clearly stated as that in his mind he just seemed to be becoming more and more adept at finding things to do with his time at the end of the day, and if he also called in at the pub more often than he used he still felt it was under control. Nursing the one pint he’d decided he’d have that night he didn’t immediately look up at the person who took the seat next to him and so he was surprised when the man spoke,

“Good evening, Detective Inspector,”

Greg stifled the wide grin that tried to break out but once he was sure that Mycroft wasn’t here to break some horrible news about Sherlock he allowed himself to smile,

“You know I have a name and I bet you know what it is, yet you always call me ‘Detective Inspector’, why is that?”

“I haven’t been invited to use anything less formal,” Mycroft replied, glancing down and to the side, a mannerism that made Greg feel strangely protective of the man.

“Well,” he said pausing to sip at his pint, “this is your invitation, call me Greg, please, when you call me ‘Detective Inspector’ I always expect that the next thing will be you asking me to recount the events of the evening of the 27th of June.”

Mycroft smiled, a little smile but one that Greg felt was almost certainly genuine.

“Not that I’m not pleased to see you, but what brings you here, I’ve not seen you in here before so I’d guess it’s not your normal gaff?”

“No, not quite.” There was a long pause which Greg decided against filling, settling instead for another couple of pulls at his pint. Finally Mycroft continued. “Truth to tell, I don’t want anything as such, do I need to want something?”

“Absolutely not,” Greg said, “you’re welcome to join me any time. What will you have?”

“A small scotch?” Mycroft asked,

“Certainly,” Greg replied trying not to let his amusement at Mycroft’s diffidence show. He gestured to the barman and ordered another pint for himself as well as Mycroft’s whisky.

Chatting with Mycroft was surprisingly easy, far less stilted than Greg had secretly expected it to be. Mycroft was quietly and cattily funny about various notables in the city from the Mayor down and taking in quite a proportion of the brass at the yard. And he listened well, laughing in his quiet way at Greg’s tales of modern policing and the not so modern tales from his time in uniform. It was startling to find that they’d been chatting for an hour when Greg finally remembered to look at his watch,

“I’m really going to have to go,” he said, “we should do this again, I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed an evening so much.”

“Yes,” agreed Mycroft, “it’s so pleasant to finally talk to you when the subject isn’t Sherlock,” and Greg was startled again to find that he hadn’t thought about Sherlock after the first initial shock of finding Mycroft sat next to him. “I hope you have a pleasant rest of the evening,” Mycroft said standing up. Greg choked back a comment about exactly how unlikely that was, the man most certainly didn’t need to hear about his troubles and Greg didn’t want to sound like he was pulling the ‘my wife doesn’t understand me’ line. It seemed that Mycroft had the same sort of supernatural powers as his brother, “You’ll tell me when you want to, you have my number, good night, Detective Inspector.”

 

Greg’s ears were still ringing from the slammed door when his phone rang. For three rings he maintained the fiction that he wasn’t going to answer it and then, swearing under his breath he thumbed the screen and lifted the phone to his mouth,

“Lestrade,” he said, offering no other clue since he expected that the call would be work. He was surprised,

“Detective Inspector?”

It took him a moment to identify the voice,

“Do you have my flat under surveillance?” he snapped. There was a long silence, long enough for Greg to begin to realise that he was being too paranoid, “Sorry, Mycroft, it’s just been a bad evening. What can I do for you?”

“Nothing, really, I ... I was wondering if you fancied a drink?” There was a long pause while Greg tried to work out just how bad of an idea it would be to go for a drink with Mycroft, it seemed that Mycroft was also thinking because he spoke again before Greg had worked out what he was going to say, “I’ve had a bad day and I just thought...”

Greg suddenly realised that someone else’s problems were exactly what he needed this evening, a perfect chance not to worry about his own difficulties,

“Of course, meet me in half an hour, same place as before?”

“Thank you.” It was Mycroft’s only reply and Greg had put the phone down before he wondered whether he should have asked about Sherlock.

Greg walked into the pub and saw that Mycroft was already there, tucked into a corner table, a whisky and what looked like a pint of London’s Pride in front of him; he made his way over and slid into the next seat. He glanced at Mycroft as he picked up the pint and drank about a third of it before he spoke,

“You sounded as near to frazzled as I’ve ever heard you and considering you grew up with Sherlock that’s saying something, do you want to talk about it?”

“Well,” Mycroft began, that’s the thing, I can’t really...” his voice petered out and he looked down at his drink for a moment before squaring his shoulders and looking Greg square in the face, “I shouldn’t have called you.”

“Nonsense,” Greg replied, “If you can’t call a friend when you’ve had a bad day what on earth use is he?”

Mycroft reached forward and fiddled with his drink, not meeting Greg’s eyes. Without thinking about it Greg reached out, cupping Mycroft’s left hand with his right. Mycroft looked up at him with such a softened expression on his face that Greg was sure that he’d never seen the real Mycroft before. They held each other’s gaze for a count of three before Mycroft spoke,

“I’m not sure I’ve ever had a friend before,” it was said without any apparent trace of self-pity and Greg wanted to pull him into his arms, to hold him and comfort him but instead he just smiled broadly before he replied,

“Well you have now.”

That night, lying awake next to his wife while she slept, Greg couldn’t completely remember what he and Mycroft had finally talked about just that it had been a good night. But now he was horribly aware of two things, he hadn’t even questioned Susan when she came in late and somehow he could still feel the warmth of Mycroft’s hand cupped in his. 

 

It was clear to Greg that Susan’s latest fling was hitting the rocks and he had no idea how he felt about that, he was horribly afraid that all of her drama had become so much background noise to him. If she followed true to form she would soon be declaring her undying love and talking about the two of them making a go of it. And here was the thing he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He was tired of it, tired of all the stupid, half-hearted lies, worried that he wasn’t worried that she didn’t even try to be convincing in her lies these days.

Still, it was Thursday, and he would be meeting Mycroft at the pub. He still had a smile on his face after that thought when Sgt Donovan put her head round his office door,

“There’s been another, sir,”

He didn’t have to ask ‘another what?’ there was only one case they had on the go that Sally would refer to in those terms,

“Where?”

“Brixton, there’s a car outside.”

“Right, we’ll just have to stop at Baker Street on the way...”

“Oh, for God’s sake, why, sir?”

“Because this is the fourth and we’re no nearer than we were after the first, we need help.”

He could hear her muttering about it as they walked from the office, but Greg knew that he needed Sherlock. He also knew that he wouldn’t be seeing Mycroft as they’d arranged. He dashed off a quick text as they went down in the lift:

Sorry, case has come up, won’t make it tonight. Just off to pick up your brother hopefully GL

The reply came back with speed as it almost always did:

Not to worry. Call me later if you want to. MH

Greg thought no more about Susan or about Mycroft, as the case went from unsolved to solved with remarkable speed even for a case involving Sherlock. And there was the new bloke, Dr Watson. It was hard to say what this new variable was going to do to Sherlock, Greg thought as they walked away from him with a promise to give statements tomorrow. Anyway it looked like the ‘suicides’ were over, a lone nutcase, no pattern to find because there was no pattern, all that was left was the untied up end of who had shot him. Greg was disinclined to chase overly zealously on that one, most likely it was a friend or relative of one of the victims, not likely to kill again, not worth chasing, or at least that’s what he tried very hard to tell himself.

Suddenly Greg felt old and weary and the thought of going back to Susan who would, if she followed pattern be either not speaking because she was at the ‘somehow it was all his fault’ stage (the better of the two choices) or the panicky, ‘I’d better be nice to Greg stage’ (getting harder to take every time they went through this stupid bloody pantomime). He wondered if he could justifiably sleep at the office. When he looked up it was in time to see Mycroft get out of a sleek black car and buttonhole his brother. Greg couldn’t have heard the conversation even if he’d tried but it looked like a pretty standard argument between them. Greg wondered if Sherlock would ever know how much their relationship or lack thereof disturbed his brother. As Sherlock walked away with Dr Watson, Greg was already walking towards Mycroft, without giving it any thought other than a feeling of warmth and of relief to see him.

“Another case solved?” Mycroft asked as Greg drew near,

“Yeah, and someone saved the tax-payer the price of a trial,” Greg replied with a wholly inappropriate smile,

“Do you need to finish things up here?” Mycroft asked and Greg took his meaning,

“Give me ten minutes?”

“Of course.”

Greg went back to the police cordon and without too much guilt divvied up the jobs he would normally do himself between the various sergeants and walked back to Mycroft’s car feeling more relaxed than he had in weeks, that and completely knackered. The back door of the car opened when he got to it and gratefully he got into its comfortable interior with a sigh.

“That sounded heart-felt,” Mycroft said and in the dim, reflected street lighting Greg could just about make out the gentle smile on his face,

“Yeah, it’s a good case to have over and done, that’s for sure,” he paused, and it seemed that Mycroft could read him far too well by now,

“If you’d brought him in sooner he probably wouldn’t have solved it sooner, he would have had less information, he wouldn’t have had Dr Watson.”

The final statement made something click in Greg’s brain and he looked up sharply at Mycroft a question forming on his lips, but before he could say anything Mycroft spoke again,

“We’d never prove it and I’m not sure we’d want to really. I’ve seen his records he’s by no means a crazed killer, and we really don’t know for sure.”

Greg was astonished,

“And you’re really happy for him to share a flat with your brother?”

“Yes, obviously I’ll keep an eye on things but I think he could be very good for Sherlock.”

Greg thought for a while as the car pulled away from the kerb,

“I suppose so, you’ll keep an eye on them?”

Mycroft just smiled at him and Greg grinned back and stretched a hand out to clasp Mycroft’s wrist,

“Just how many of the populous are you keeping an eye on?” he asked,

“Not too many,” Mycroft said. Greg swallowed,

“Am I one of them?” he asked, suddenly feeling almost shy,

“Of course you are ... you’re very important to me ... surely you know that?”

Greg sucked in a deep breath,

“Yeah, I guess, and I hope you know how important you are to me,”

“I sense a ‘but’ hurtling towards this conversation,” the smile that accompanied the comment was a brave try but didn’t quite come off. Greg ducked his head in acknowledgement,

“But I’m married,”

Mycroft interrupted, his words coming out rapidly and quietly as if he were trying to get through what he had to say in a hurry before Greg interrupted in turn,

“I’m well aware of that, and I respect your fidelity, but it doesn’t make any difference to how I feel, and how I feel shouldn’t make any difference to you,” he paused and when Greg couldn’t frame a reply he continued, “It’s just sometimes one should say these things so that they’ve been said. Will you, can we carry on as if I hadn’t said anything?”

Greg had a hundred things he wanted to say, but the one that most wanted to be said was ‘I love you,’ and he couldn’t say it, not with Susan at home, but the thought of losing what he had with Mycroft was horrifying. He swallowed,

“I’m glad to know it and no I don’t think it will make any difference.”

“Good”

 

By Christmas things were more back on an even keel. Susan had assured him that there was only him and seemed to have stuck to it for months, perhaps she was over her need for flings. And here it was almost Christmas. John Watson had invited him and a few others over. If it were anyone else it would seem like it was a party, but somehow that idea didn’t really fit together in the same frame of reference as Sherlock. He’d told Susan he’d be back at a decent hour and gone out purposely cheerful and determined not to expect that Mycroft would be there.

Of course Mycroft wasn’t there, and of course Sherlock was Sherlock and within fifteen minutes Sherlock was telling him that his wife was still playing away and upsetting Molly, pretty typical Greg thought, trying to focus on Molly rather than Susan, not wanting to think about Susan and never for a moment doubting that Sherlock was right.

The party broke up early. One of Sherlock’s gifts, Greg couldn’t immediately see what it was, seemed to send him into a tailspin. Greg tried to help keep the party going but then Sherlock left and Greg felt a pang of jealousy when John, looking out of the window said that Sherlock had got into one of Mycroft’s cars. Seconds after that Molly got called to work and Greg got drafted into John and Mrs Hudson’s impromptu drugs raid. They didn’t find anything, but it was at least a distraction from what he was going to do about Susan because he didn’t really think he could do this anymore. A treacherous voice mumbled that it was only because he thought he had somewhere else to go now with Mycroft, but after (he did a quick count up) more than half a dozen serious affairs and god knows how many flings he was rather beginning to think he’d had enough.

Mycroft rang and warned John that Sherlock was on his way back and Greg watched John completely stuff things up with his girlfriend distracted as he was by Sherlock. Greg decided that was his cue to leave. He kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek, and made sure that John knew he could call him before leaving. Trying not to wonder where Mycroft was, trying not to hope that he would be waiting outside. He wasn’t but Greg decided to walk home and told himself it was to clear his head and not at all to give Mycroft time to find him.

Mycroft did find him, the car pulled up quietly, as subtle as the man himself and Greg was surprised to find that he was having to blink repeatedly before he opened the door and got in.

“Do you never worry that bad people could kidnap any of your nearest and dearest because you’ve conditioned them to get into any passing flash black car?”

“No, I think most of you have more sense,” Mycroft replied with a smile which faltered as he looked more closely at Greg. He swallowed and then continued speaking, “He told you then?”

“You knew?” Greg asked and he made no attempt to keep the sudden anger he was feeling to himself, “Why the hell did you not tell me.”

“Honestly?”

Greg nodded, not quite prepared to speak,

“It would have seemed self-serving and the last thing I wanted was to seem like I was happy that it happened.”

“Are you?”

“No, of course not. You can believe this even if you believe nothing else, I want you to be happy and you wanted that happiness with Susan. I wanted her to mean it when she said she’d changed.”

Greg looked away, out of the window, Christmas lights in the shops along the way passing as so many multi-coloured streaks.

“I wanted her to mean it too. I want to be able to do this again, try and get it right, but ... I don’t think I can.”

There was a long pause,

“I don’t really know what to say,” Mycroft said,

“There’s nothing you can say. I’ve been stupid all these years and now I’m finally admitting it, what is there to say.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Greg’s instant reaction was to say, ‘No, I’ll be fine, it’ll be OK,’ to make light of the thing, but what actually came out was the last thing that he wanted to say,

“Still be waiting when I’ve got things sorted out?”

“I’ll always be waiting.”

 

It took months. It had taken a week before Susan had finally stopped raging about him taking more notice of Sherlock (as usual) than her and admitted that she was seeing someone. It was just somehow more annoying that Sherlock was right about it being the PE teacher and there were a number of angry texts to Mycroft about why he hadn’t let Greg know what was going on. The replies were good humoured and supportive but never apologetic and in truth Greg knew that Mycroft had been right.

Although it seemed weird Greg took a fortnight of leave when she was going and he even helped her move out, managed to be civil to the PE teacher and then went back to his cavernous feeling flat and tried to work out what happened next.

He was disturbed by post coming through the door and he stirred himself to go and pick it up. Bills and statements and a small envelope addressed in exquisite, immediately recognisable hand writing. Greg opened it his fingers ever so slightly trembling. It was a plane ticket, and a hotel booking confirmation for the day after next, somewhere hot and expensive. There was a note,

> I’ve booked this for you. I have tickets also for me but I will understand completely if you find you would rather go on your own. Let me know and either way accept this as a thank you for the number of times you have saved both Sherlock and me,
> 
> MH

Greg held the ticket for a long time. The idea of time away from all of it was appealing and his first reaction was to use the ticket and politely turn Mycroft down. Surely it was too soon? Surely he needed time to get over Susan before he started in on something else? He was on the point of texting Mycroft to let him know when he changed his mind:

> You know what, fuck it, I’m going to take the tickets and I’d like you there as well, I’ve waited long enough, I can’t believe how patient you’ve been. Will you meet me at Heathrow?
> 
> GL

 

The holiday was brilliant, the company was wonderful and tentatively the two of them had let their relationship develop. They weren’t shagging each other’s brains out every night by any means, this was the first time Greg had ever been in a relationship with another man, but on the last night of the holiday they had spent the evening in their room in an increasingly passionate series of marathon kisses and started their last holiday morning with a shared shower that had satisfied both of them.

And now they were on the plane, flying home. Greg held Mycroft’s hand, his thumb gently stroking the back of his hand, across the fine haze of freckles. To be honest he was feeling a little smug aware of the fact that he went a lovely even toned brown at the faintest hint of sun.

Greg could feel that Mycroft had tensed up slightly and wasn’t surprised when he spoke, he merely braced himself, worried that Mycroft was going to try and write this thing off as just a ‘holiday thing’,

“It was more than worth the wait,” Mycroft said finally,

“I shouldn’t have made you wait so long. I’m lucky you were prepared to wait this long, lucky that I met you at all.”

“Yes, we shall have to find a good Christmas present for Sherlock this year,” Mycroft replied with a smile.

 

Getting work back to something approaching a straight-line was hard work and Greg didn’t see much of Mycroft the first week back until he received a text:

> Could you find time for a trip to Devon? Sherlock and Dr Watson have just narrowly avoided being arrested by the Military Police down at Baskerville. Getting leave will of course be no problem for you :).

Greg grinned as he replied,

> Yeah, I’ll go. I consider my life’s work is done now that I’ve got a text from Mycroft Holmes with a smiley in it!

 

Why did he do it? The thought went through Greg’s mind over and over again leaving no room for anything else, not for the inquiry at work, not for the relentless press. He wanted Mycroft but couldn’t for the life in him believe that Mycroft would want anything more than to thump him and keep thumping. He’d had a number of texts from Mycroft and he’d deleted each of them, not wanting the final confirmation that the thing they’d had, the thing that had made him happier than he could remember being was over and all because he couldn’t see when he’d backed Sherlock into a corner. Not that it would have made sense to contact Mycroft anyway with the press still following both of them.

Later he was woken by a persistent thumping at the door of his flat. He ignored it, probably just another reporter he thought as he walked into the living room and picked up a startlingly depleted bottle of scotch. The knocking stopped and Greg could hear that someone was trying to actually open the lock. He walked angrily to the door, ready to confront whichever journalist it was. When he pulled the door open he was surprised to see Mycroft and completely broadsided by the state the man was in. A fresh wave of guilt struck him, in all this he hadn’t even stopped to think that Mycroft might need comfort from him, that even if he wanted to break every bone in his body Greg should be with him, should be trying to help.

They stood looking at each other until Mycroft spoke,

“May I come in?”

Greg didn’t trust himself to speak; he just held the door open and walked down the hallway to the living room. He poured the last of the scotch and handed it to Mycroft who took it in a bemused way as if he didn’t know what to do with it. Greg broke the silence,

“I’m sorry,” once the first words were spoken it all came tumbling out, “I never thought, I didn’t think he could do anything like that, I just never thought,” Greg was aware that he was rambling and saying nothing, only dimly aware of his tears and of Mycroft who had put down the scotch untouched and moved across the room to pull Greg into his arms. For a second Greg struggled, feeling that it was almost obscene to accept comfort from the man whose brother he had as good as killed, but in the end he just let himself be held while he sobbed until he could finally exercise some control over himself and he gently pushed Mycroft away,

“I’m sorry, Mycroft, that was inexcusable, it shouldn’t be you comforting me,”

“Nonsense,” Mycroft replied with a certain snap to his voice, “It wasn’t your fault any more than it was mine, it was the fault of James Moriarty and god help him of my brother, no one else.” Mycroft cleared his throat and continued, “And actually I rather thought that we would be comforting each other. I need you Greg, I can’t do this without you and I don’t want you to deal with this on your own. Now come here again.”

Greg stumbled towards him and they held each other for many minutes.


End file.
